Every Offense Is Not A Hate At

Then With The Losers Let It Sympathize, For Nothing Can Seem Foul To Those That Win.

To Some Kind Of Men Their Graces Serve Them But As Enemies.

Fear No More The Heat O' Th' Sun Nor The Furious Winters' Rages; Thou Thy Worldly Task Hast Done, Home Art Gone, And Ta'en Thy Wages. Golden Lads And Girls All Must, As Chimney-sweepers, Come To Dust.

Let Men Say We Be Men Of Good Government, Being Governed, As The Sea Is, By Our Noble And Chaste Mistress The Moon, Under Whose Countenance We Steal.

He's Loved Of The Distracted Multitude, Who Like Not In Their Judgement, But Their Eyes.